Saturday, June 26, 2010

Like a Good Serial Killer Would

he wrote a book for her

she couldn't read it the wurds were smeared. with

sweat

tears

blood

And years.





time passes. your life happens. and you wonder.

what if?



if the mountain climbs and the log cabins. if the fireworks and the

shooting stars.

had been real. had been with him.



could she read his book then? would the wurds sizzle on the page

catching fire

then exploding with their meaning ~

meant for her eyes. maybe then she would know.

and the memories would change. and the pain would stay the same. because she

can never be satisfied.



she'd rather he'd written her a song.

Friday, April 23, 2010

11*22*09

hollowing out
moving on
feels good to feel this empty.

she hasn't been here in a long time. she's been
away
she's been with her. and that makes her different
made. made her different.
now she's not sure who she is. an other. someone referred to in the past tense.
someone referred to less and less often, until the stories aren't relevant.

until she's gone. not even the memory remains.

long ago and far away. they were sisters. she thought. she thought the wurd "friend"
didn't cover it.
wouldn't do justice to their bond.
sisters.
yes.
the sex was never that good. the physical aspect to placate. she didn't mean it.
she wanted to help her of course. of course! she knew she could open her eyes.
let her see herself the way she never had before. let her in on the secret of
self ((love)).
she loved her for who she was. then. at that point. in that time. in that life.
the sex ended and they were sisters. lovers of a different kind.
exploring. musick life ego scene thoughts ideas gods fashion lust drugs unity pain
ink eviction laughter death the other side of tomorrow. and love.

fast forward.

now stop.

where did it end? looking back she couldn't see the end. a destination wasn't clear.
no fork in the road. no u turn. no turning back.
just fog. soft fog. swirling like the stories that are no longer important. the
inside jokes
that she's now on the outside of.
the fog ascends and she's on the other side. somewhere.
she's moving on. and so it is. so it must be.

growing out of a friendship is not art. losing her sister to the
other
to the hollow part that once was

she doesn't have her anymore

but she is not alone

Friday, April 2, 2010

Leaning toward forever.

leaning on the kitchen sink in a nightie. Betsey Johnson peekaboo flats snug on her feet.
garter belt, check. thigh highs, check.
it's 2:30pm.
nov 14th. the window is open and the warm air makes her reminiscent . of what? who?
she inhales the sunny breeze. her hair, loose around her shoulders, floats lazily in the air like a copper cloud.
peter steele's voice caresses her. she feels happy. she feels complete.
she feels~

perfect

eyes closed, head turned toward the sky. mind devoid of the anxiety and misery
that's usually there
no clouds today
she loves the rain. but today the clear blue twinkling off the stars wrapped around the fence are much more.

more?
fitting. fitting her. filling her.

she leans to look at the street when the cars speed by. waiting.
he's on his way back
back home
on his way back home to her. his love fills the space around her. this reality is someone's dream
it must be.
heart beating out the rhythm of forever. calm peace serenity. not normal.
but neither is she.

this alien feeling of perfection is horrifying in its promise of forever. ascending.
ascension.
the cosmic realm drags her to where she needs to be.
can this be tomorrow? can it be today? can it be forever?
it's now.

and that's enough.


Photobucket

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Inspiration


it is raining steadily as we rush out of the movie theatre.
it's close to midnight, the witching hour they say. we're giggling
with abandon as we scurry down the concrete ramp toward her car.
fog clings to the lights planted in the ground along the path.
it hangs suspended in the air, heavy and thick ~ like my lust for her.
we are all soaked, she the only one without a jacket. the thin
grey top she's wearing offers no protection; but offers my greedy
eyes a veritable feast.
despite the wet and the chill, she runs to the passenger door and unlocks
it so i can seek refuge from the rain first. such chivalry, always the gentleman.
i lean over and unlock her side. she jumps in, shivering with the cold.
she busies herself lighting a cigarette, and i stare. absorbing all
of her that i can. tight black curls seeping with rain. droplets snaking down
dark golden arms. her face dewy and soft, as i imagine it might be when she is sexually satisfied.
i'm dying to touch her. to reach out and feel the soft slant of her purple rimmed eye. to trace a finger down the soft flesh of her arm, following the rain as it drips down to her thighs. to wrap my hands full of those curls.
to feel her.
i shake from my daze and try to fight off the hypnosis she unknowingly wields
over me. i look out the window into the darkness and think only of the starshine in the car with me.
and live to love another day.